Finding Me Monday: Macros, Meat (Alternatives), and Madness

Song of the Day: “Walking on Sunshine” – Katrina and the Waves

Some days, the universe just gets it. Today was one of those days—every macro lined up, every rep counted, and even the meat-cutting felt like a strange, rhythmic dance. No snoozed alarms. No forgotten meals. Just me, a packed lunch, a gym session that actually clicked, and 20,000 steps of laser focus.

I hit the weights early—chest and triceps—because if I don’t train before work, it doesn’t happen. The cold steel of the incline bench felt oddly comforting, a familiar challenge. Somewhere between that first heavy press and the cable pushdowns, I caught myself humming today’s anthem: “I’m walking on sunshine… whoa-oh…” And honestly? I kinda felt it.

No dramatic transformation. No sudden six-pack. Just that rush of energy that comes when your body finally starts cooperating—like gears locking into place.

Macros? Counted. On point. Boring? Sure. But effective. The kind of food that doesn’t give you cravings—it gives you flashbacks. Still, fuel is fuel. Flavor can wait until the weekend.

Work was work. The cold floor under my boots, the roar of machines, the endless river of meat (which I no longer eat, thank you very much). By the time I got home, exhaustion was a dull throb—but I wasn’t broken.

That’s when Tobito found me.

A rustle from under the couch. A faint whiff of stale salsa. Then—BAM—he popped out, crusted with chip dust like he’d been in deep emotional recovery.

He blinked dramatically, gasped, and shouted:

“YOU’RE ALIVE!”

Then flung himself onto the coffee table like a telenovela star reunited with his long-lost human.

“You left me!” he wailed, flailing a tiny tortilla limb. “Alone! Cold! Emotionally unsauced!”

I told him I’d been at the gym and work—not time-traveling through emotional voids. But Tobito had already wrapped himself in a weighted blanket like a tortilla of betrayal.

Eventually, he calmed. Dramatic side-eye intact.

“Fine,” he grumbled. “Full control of the television, and all will be… considered.”

I handed him the remote—his scepter of healing. For a second, he paused.

His usually cartoonish eyes held something softer.

“You know,” he said quietly, “it’s not about how far you go in one day, or how perfect your macros are. It’s about showing up. Every single time. Even when you’re tired. Even when you’re…” he sniffled, “… emotionally unsauced.”

Then, in a blink, he was back.

“Now, hand over the popcorn. We’ve got a lot of important… research… to do.”

All was forgiven. For now.

Today was a good day. Nothing flashy. Just one foot in front of the other.

Meal by meal.

Set by set.

Step by step.

It wasn’t magic.

But it felt like progress.

And sometimes?

That’s enough to keep walking on sunshine.

Even if your legs are sore from squats.

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